Better Things to Do
by ElvishKiwi's favourite sister
Summary: "Make some friends." His mother had said. "One day, you'll find yourself in danger, fighting a battle too great for you to manage on your own. When that time comes, you'll need strong, loyal and trustworthy men at your side if you wish to come out alive."


**Hey People!  
I wrote this story for my friend's birthday present and I hope she, along with everyone else, enjoys it. In case you're wondering about the EN, Ebony is kindly going to publish this for me, due to me being on holiday. Now, I have important things to do (like rereading this story to check for spelling mistakes) so goodbye. *vanishes, leaving Ebby to console everyone*  
**(Ebby's Note) _(Something in italics that Ebby will think up)_

**~HB~BL~**

The rain battered his face, mingling with his tears as he watched the burning craft disappear into the thick fog, carrying the lifeless body of his mother with it.  
Around him, people were milling about, ready to go home and continue their happy, peaceful lives now that the ceremony was finished, forgetting about the warrior's son who had been left motherless the day before.  
_Make some friends._ The boy nodded, wiping the moisture from his face as he turned away from the beach and headed back into Hallasholm, thinking about the other boys he knew in his home town.  
Stig would be a good friend if he could win him over. The tall, fit boy was often seen alone, generally doing something physical. He had a hot temper but could probably do with a friend.  
Hal was another option. The half Araluen was generally held in suspicion but he was agile and had a good head on his shoulders, plus he could also do with a friend.  
The boy shivered as a gust of wind came rippling through, bringing with it the cold, snow laden air. Huddling further into his collar, the boy had a rather gloomy thought.  
_Like Father's going to let me befriend them. 'A half Araluen and the son of a traitor. A warrior's son shouldn't associate with such people.' He doesn't care whether or not I have friends. All he cares about is fighting._  
The boy traced the familiar paths of Hallasholm, his thoughts wandering to other boys he could potentially befriend. There were many possible options and the boy quickened his pace, encouraged by the fact. Somebody would be willing to join him.  
So intent on his thoughts, he almost walked into someone. Jumping back, out of the way of the person, he recognised Stig and forced a smile.  
"Hey, Stig." he began, searching desperately for a way to begin a conversation. "You know how your Mam does people's washing…"  
Stig, at first looking a bit surprised, snarled at the mention of his mother and her occupation. "Shut up about my Mam, Tursgud." He growled before swinging a lightning fast punch and stalking away, leaving Tursgud staring after him, now with blood as well as rain dripping down his face.  
_Well, that didn't exactly go according to plan._

~HB~BL~

Tursgud pushed the door open and entered his house, looking around at the now familiar, empty surroundings. Moving into the kitchen, Tursgud began preparing a meal, peeling some potatoes and setting them to boil on the stove, then slicing some not very fresh bread and holding it over the fire to toast, thickly spread with butter to make it go crispy while the meat browned, or blackened, in a pan.  
The fire sizzled as fat from the meat splashed over the sides and melted butter dripped from the bread, flaring up and setting the toast alight. Tursgud blew hurriedly on the small patch of flame, only spreading it more until he finally managed to put it out, leaving a blackened hunk of charcoal on his stick.  
Tursgud sighed and used his saxe to shave the outside layer off, then ate the brittle sustenance beneath the burnt blackness.  
Turning his attention back to the stove, and its contents, Tursgud took the meat off and put it on a plate, digging in hungrily to the braised flesh, ignoring the fact that it was still red in the middle. Bad cooking wasn't a novelty to him anymore. He'd been doing his own cooking for almost six months now and had learned to just put up with his skills, or lack thereof.  
Shoving the last of the food down, the boy got up and headed for the door, pausing when he heard his name.  
"I'm just going out to meet with my friends. We're going to play a game of bladderball."  
His father came into the room, shaking his head. "No, you've got better things to do. It's about time I started your education."  
Tursgud rolled his eyes. "What do you mean, started my education? You do realise that I went to barnskole, or were you too busy killing people to notice?"  
The warrior grabbed his son by the collar and pulled him close. "Don't cheek me, boy. What did you learn at barnskole? How to read and write, how to be nice and share with the other boys? Do you think they're going to help you in life? If you do, you're more stupid then I thought you were. The real skills you need are how to fight and defend yourself, and it's about time you learned. I won't have you coming home with blood on your face again. Come."  
Tursgud wasn't given an opportunity to refuse as he was dragged along by his collar.  
His father gestured to a stuffed sack in the back yard. "First thing you need to learn; boxing. It's important to know how to fight unarmed. There's the sack: Kill it."  
Tursgud stood in front of the sack, waiting a command of some sort to start.  
His father was silent for a while, watching his son with resignation. "That's the first lesson. Always start the fight, don't give you opponent enough time to think. Hit hard and fast."  
Tursgud nodded and swung a punch, hitting the sack with a glancing blow, sending it spinning away from him.  
His father gestured at it. "Don't do one punch at a time. Fast, remember? And put your whole body into it, rather than just your arm."  
Tursgud sent fast, shattering blows at the sack, not waiting for it to come back to him but instead closing the gap, ducking out of the way when it swung back and keeping his constant barrage running.  
His father nodded approvingly. "That's better. Keep doing that for another three hours and I'll give you something new to work on."

~HB~BL~

Tursgud continued his training for another week until his father judged him adequate and left him alone, leaving his exhausted son to go, gratefully, back to his old routine.  
He now had a dozen or so friends, each of which followed him loyally. Both Hal and Stig had rejected his offer of friendship and Tursgud made sure they paid for it, making fun of them whenever possible, especially focusing on Hal, seen as he was an easier target and fancied the same girl Tursgud liked.  
Despite the air he put on whenever he saw the two boys, he admired them both. Hal was smart and intelligent, while Stig was an opponent to be reckoned with and both of them were loyal and resourceful. Maybe it was because of the admiration he felt, deep down, that Tursgud made it his personal goal to make their lives… less pleasant.  
He felt confident, now that he had almost a dozen other boys backing him up.  
They all hung on his every word, imitated his actions and supported him in any decision he made. He felt good, like a true skirl, with his crew backing him up, ready to carry out his commands.  
Brotherband training would happen soon and he looked forward to it with anticipation.

~HB~BL~

Tursgud felt the disapproving glances of his crew as they carried out his order, ignoring the crippled ship and instead heading for the finish line.  
It wasn't the first time he'd felt censured by their gazes but, this time, it was a lot stronger. He'd felt it when he'd led them to attack the Herons, especially on the way back, when they'd been humiliated by Rolond's crew, the Wolves. Now though, he could almost hear their thoughts of mutiny.  
_I'll show them it was the right decision when we win, beating the Wolves and the Herons to dust._

~HB~BL~

Tursgud cursed quietly as the wave hit, giving the Herons the few seconds they needed to get into the harbor before him.  
He'd lost.  
The realisation surged over him like a tidal wave, hitting with the force of a battering ram. He'd _lost_. After three months of training, of telling himself he would win, that his team, the Sharks, were more than big, dumb fish, he'd lost to the birdies.  
The horrible, wicked, hated Herons, who'd humiliated him at every opportunity, who were led by a skinny little foreigner and were only a bunch of misfits themselves.  
Tursgud, son of the great Maktig, had lost to a group of outcasts who were outnumbered by him and the Sharks. All of the bitterness, hatred and pressure he'd felt in his entire life finally found something to concentrate on. A blind giant, twins who couldn't tell themselves apart, a good for nothing mimic, a thief, a hot head and, most of all, a foreigner. A stupid, dumb foreigner from a country that barely had fishing boats worthy of the title.  
Tursgud numbly steered his craft into the harbor, calling the necessary orders and going ashore, all the time watching the Herons, his mind seething with hatred.  
He no longer felt admiration for the leaders of the other brotherband. It was all forgotten in the flurry of thoughts in his mind, pushed aside by the dominant thread running through his brain.  
_I want revenge._

**~ATGTJ~**

**What deedo think? I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you people felt the same about reading it. Thanks for the kind thoughts about reviewing this story. Please put them to action.**


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